


Build Your Home in Me

by Zedrobber



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is injured, Aziraphale is tortured by angels, Aziraphale thinks he deserves it, Black Eye, Blood, Broken Bones, Crowley heals Aziraphale, Crowley performs miracles, Crowley performs vocal bastardry, Graphic Injury, Graphic Wounds, Graphic descriptions of gore, Heaven is corrupt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, READ TAGS THOROUGHLY PLEASE, Tw flogging, Whump, lots of blood I mean it and descriptions of it too, lung injury, pining (they're in love and won't tell each other), please just be aware that there are some unpleasant implications and themes in this, rib injury, torture (aziraphale gets the whump BAD), trauma response, uhhhh, use of euphemisms for torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: This was a gift for sarahenany for some wonderful, amazingly thorough comments on my fics - I asked what they would like best and honestly, this was a challenge in some ways for me as I don't usually write such heavy injuries! I thoroughly enjoyed making this, thank you SO much for your comments, your feedback, your suggestions, your ideas and your patience, I truly mean it.PLEASE read the tags thoroughly; there are some gnarly things in this fic including torture by angels, and mentions of more torture, graphic injuries and lots of blood, and Aziraphale being very poorly treated indeed by Heaven.There is tea as well, though, and a hopefully pleasant ending if you get there, because Crowley isn't going to let this continue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 251
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	Build Your Home in Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahenany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/gifts).

“Angel? Aziraphale? Are you home?”

The bell jangled merrily above the door, jarring in the quiet, dust-mote speckled sunlight of the bookshop. Crowley stood predator-still in the silence after it had faded, head cocked, listening intently. The shop felt  _ off _ , truly unwelcoming for the first time he could remember, a hulking, semi-conscious creature defending its young with every weapon available. 

He locked the doors behind him, frowning. “Aziraphale?”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled,  _ danger _ painted traffic-light red behind his eyelids, but he pressed on. The bookshop was safe. Aziraphale had protection sigils hidden all over it. He was the only demon who could step foot inside the place. 

“Where are you?” he asked, and his voice was deadwood dry, swallowed up by the very bricks themselves and lost to them. Panic swelled in his chest, ribs cage-tight against a heart that felt suddenly too big, too fast, too human. A step forward into the vast emptiness of the shop, out of the painted tiger stripes of daylight and into the memory-laden shadows, footsteps drumbeat-dull on the floors where they used to click. One hand dangled forgotten at his side, a bottle of wine held by reflex alone between fear-numbed fingertips. Something was very,  _ very  _ wrong. But what could it be? What could penetrate the relative sanctuary of Aziraphale’s own  _ bookshop? _

As he slipped further into the dark of the building’s protective cocoon, he could finally smell it - a smoke-dry, citrus-spiked scent of ozone, the calling card of Heavenly beings. His stomach lurched.

“Angel?” he tried again, his voice a paper-thin whisper.

“I - I’m very busy, I’m afraid, dear boy. Can you come back tomorrow?”

_ Aziraphale! _ For one glorious moment, his heart sang, elated just to hear the angel’s voice - but it was sent crashing back to Earth like Icarus in the same moment. Aziraphale had been expecting him. They were going out to dinner. He would  _ never _ cancel plans without warning - if nothing else, he was as reliable as the rising sun.

“Aziraphale? It’s me! Crowley!” A ridiculous thing to say, really; they knew each other’s voices as well as any two beings in the Universe could. “I’ve got the wine!”

“Ah yes. How silly of me! Dinner. I’m - I’m afraid we’ll need to postpone it, my dear. I’m - indisposed at present.” His voice was strained, shadowed with pain, jagged at the edges like swallowing glass.

“Where are you? Are you in the back? I’ll come to you.”

“No! Please - stay where you are - I’m fine, truly -” But Crowley was already following his voice, determined to see for himself what was so wrong that Aziraphale cancelled dinner plans at the Ritz. 

His skin was still prickling in warning, creeping goosebumps on his arms like braille, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that Aziraphale needed him  _ now, _ despite his words; and so he weaved his way through to the back room, that haven of jumbled peace Aziraphale had crafted with faded cushions and outdated curtains and mismatched light fixtures from five decades ago.

He was not prepared for what he found.

At first, his mind simply refused to acknowledge what it was he was even looking at - a mess of colour and skin and fabric, a patchwork image it took him a second to make sense of. When he did, he almost wished he hadn’t.

Aziraphale was curled up on the sofa in the smallest, tightest ball that he could manage, head tucked underneath his hands as though still protecting his face. The ozone-grapefruit smell was stronger in here, mingling unpleasantly with disinfectant and the slippery, copper-kettle tang of blood. He was bare from the waist up, and oh -

_ His back _ . Crowley had seen many things in his existence, the best and worst that humanity could inflict on each other; wars and torture and murder and worse, and even he recoiled at the ravaged mess of flesh and blood that had been pale, beautiful skin. The whole expanse of it from waist to shoulder was mottled with bruises, stormcloud-dark and blooming yellow at the edges - what was intact, at least. The rest was striped with lacerations, still bleeding sluggishly despite the pile of bloodstained towels on the floor next to him. The wounds were criss-crossed; laid over one another with a terrible, brutal efficiency, several of them clearly landing almost directly over already opened flesh, the skin around them torn and ragged and angry red. There were sticky smears of drying blood on Aziraphale’s hands, his fingertips ghoulishly berry-stained. Both wrists were ringed with bracelets of bruises and his right looked jarringly bent at an impossible angle that made Crowley feel nauseous. Even the sofa had been splattered - fat, wet droplets shining on the cushions, the throw, the lampshade, all clearly flung there by the weapon that had caused the wounds in the very act of swinging it.

“Angel?” he said, brittle-voiced, brittle-hearted, afraid that both would break. The bottle of wine slipped unheeded to the rug-strewn floor, rolling underneath a chair as though even it couldn’t bear to look. 

Crowley took one step closer, into the sepia-gold warmth of the lamplight, leaving a deceptively cosy cast on the brutal scene. “Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale stirred a little, a quiet  _ oh _ of pain escaping him before he bit it back. His breath whistled alarmingly with every laboured rise of his chest. Agonisingly slowly, he began to unfurl himself, every movement bracketed by swallowed down cries and limbs shaking with effort. Crowley wanted desperately to help but had no idea where to touch him that wouldn’t just cause more pain and so he dropped bonelessly to his knees beside the sofa instead, discarding his sunglasses and peering up into Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, angel,” he said finally, seeing the swollen mess of his left eye, the oil-slick colours of the bruises around it. His hand fluttered upwards, fingertips kissing the edges of the damage, tentative and so,  _ so _ careful. 

“What happened?”

Aziraphale swallowed, holding his broken wrist to himself protectively. He couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Please. Tell me who did this to you. Tell me who I need to kill.” 

“Crowley,  _ no!  _ I deserved it,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely, shamefaced and desolate. 

“What?”

“I deserved it,” he repeated, licking his lips. “I was reprimanded.”

“Reprimanded? For what? By who? Angel, you’re making no -” His blood ran suddenly cold, ice-water rivers roaring in his ears as he remembered the countless times that Aziraphale had told him the same thing.  _ Reprimands. Strongly worded notes. Disciplinary procedures _ . He had assumed, with the casual way Aziraphale talked about them, that he had been being literal. That Heaven was just a stickler for the menial torture of endless paperwork. He had never even  _ dreamed _ -

“Heaven did this to you?” he asked carefully, blood pounding in his temples like a war drum.

“They had no choice. I had already been warned not to - associate - with you any more. It was my fault for not listening to them.”

“Can’t you heal yourself?”

“Part of the disciplinary procedure, I’m afraid. I can’t heal for two weeks this time. I’m on probation until I -  _ learn my lesson. _ ” The resignation in his tone made Crowley’s already overheated blood  _ boil. _

_ This time?  _ Crowley cast his eyes over the broken body of Aziraphale; the bruises, the wounds, the abject misery in every inch of him.  _ How many other times had there been? _

“Right. I’m not leaving you like this.”

“You have to! It’s my punishment!” It was almost a wail, plaintive and pitiful and scared, and Crowley had to grit his teeth against it, biting down the sharp edges of his words and smoothing them out to make Aziraphale able to hear them.

“It’s not a punishment, angel. A punishment is - being grounded, or writing lines, or something. This is torture, plain and simple. You don’t deserve this.”

“I do, I -”

“You don’t. You could  _ never _ deserve this. Trust me, I know all about punishment. Here,” Crowley said, infinitely gentle, taking Aziraphale’s wrist in his hands. “Let me help.” 

_ Let me help. _ It wasn’t what he wanted to say; he  _ wanted _ to say  _ I love you, I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this, I’ll kill anyone who hurts you, _ the words searingly bright and clear in his mind, on his tongue, crowding to come out. 

But he couldn’t let them spill from his desperate lips. Not yet, not now, and not like this. The tightrope they walked between friends and enemies was perilous enough without the addition of that deeper and unspoken feeling between them, the golden shimmer that overlaid all of their interactions and turned them to stardust in their minds. It was too dangerous to give voice to it, no matter the agony it caused to keep it locked away. So he took Aziraphale’s wrist in his hands as though it were an injured baby bird, and he prayed that some of the love would bleed through his fingers.

“But -” Aziraphale allowed Crowley to take it, looking at it in bewildered, passive consternation as though he couldn’t understand how it had happened. There were even bloodstains in his hair, scarlet on snow, shocking and somehow unimaginably more violent than the rest of his injuries. 

“You shouldn’t,” he said helplessly, even as Crowley willed the bones back into place as carefully as possible. “You’ll get into trouble.” Crowley didn’t speak,  _ couldn’t _ speak without the seething rage bubbling out of him like an eruption, savage and boiling. He merely switched his attention to Aziraphale’s eye, touching it lightly, a butterfly caress that barely made contact. It still made Aziraphale wince, but the sight of the swelling and the ink-spill bruises fading into nothing was worth it. The bruises on his wrists were similarly satisfying.

“I need to fix your back, angel,” he said next, pulse thundering at the prospect, rabbit-fast and painful. “I’m just going to sit behind you, alright?” 

Aziraphale nodded, air wheezing out of him -  _ that’s bad, that’s really bad, I need to mend that too - _ and Crowley slipped behind him on the sofa, sucking in a hollow breath through bared teeth at the devastation laid out so plainly in the soft, golden glow of the lamplight. His nostrils flared, the iron-sweet smell of blood cloying.

_ God, please, _ he thought, the surely blasphemous prayer slipping from him automatically.  _ Please let him be alright. This can’t be part of your Plan, surely. If it is, then do it to me. Not him.  _

“This part might hurt,” he warned aloud. “Demonic miracles have a tendency to be a little double-edged.”

“I trust you,” Aziraphale whispered immediately. “I mean - I can take a little pain.”

_ I wish you didn’t know that. _ “I know. You’re doing so well. I’ll be as fast as I can and then we’ll have some tea and cake, alright?” Even as he spoke, he was knitting the flesh back together, trying to distract Aziraphale as best he could with idle chatter about nothing. It took longer than he’d hoped; the damage was so extensive that it was often difficult to know how to begin, each laceration requiring careful reconstruction. Aziraphale sat in stoic silence, the only betrayal of his discomfort the minute trembling of his shoulders and the whistle of his lungs.

“Almost there,” Crowley said eventually. His forehead was shiny with sweat, the bitter tang of it pooled on his lip where his tongue rested in concentration. His hands ached to the very bones, a deep, gnawing pain that he knew would only worsen without rest, the effort of so many miracles exhausting his reserves of strength. Aziraphale clutched at the back of the sofa, a low, continuous whimper squeezed out of him with each laboured breath, his teeth chattering with the aftershock of adrenaline. 

“I’ve got you, it’s alright,” Crowley murmured, the last gash closed. “You’re done.”

Aziraphale leaned back against his chest gratefully and unselfconsciously, curling himself up into Crowley’s arms as though he’d done it for years, his hair tickling Crowley’s chin. “I’m afraid - my ribs, or my lungs, or something -” he began, gesturing weakly to himself with an unsteady hand. 

“I know. Lean against me.” Crowley summoned the last of his strength with gargantuan effort, pulling it up from somewhere deep and unfathomable inside of him, and laid his hands over Aziraphale’s ribs, trying to disguise the shaking and blinking back tears of pain.

Almost immediately, Aziraphale’s breathing eased, that ominous whine gone from his throat. Crowley could  _ feel _ the ribs moving back into place, his lungs refilling with air, his broken pieces slotting back together under Crowley’s careful, shuddering fingers.

“Thank you,” he said, and Crowley discreetly miracled away the blood from his hair with a soft breath that he disguised as a sigh, the final dregs of his energy draining from his body with it and leaving him feeling crudely gouged out and empty.

“Can you - may I stay here a moment?” 

“Of course, angel.”

Crowley tried not to think about the fact that this was as close as they had ever been, Aziraphale’s back against his chest, his limbs loose and tangled in Crowley’s. He tried not to think about how his touch-starved body was on fire with the proximity, every inch of him thrumming with the contact. Aziraphale didn’t need that any more than he needed Crowley’s all-consuming rage at the _ bastards  _ who did this. He needed comfort, and safety, and tenderness. He’d had precious little of any of those things, thanks to Heaven.

So instead, Crowley stroked one hand idly through Aziraphale’s star-bright hair, pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa down over them both, his free arm curled around Aziraphale’s stomach. Instead, he waited patiently while Aziraphale’s breathing steadied and slowed, the last of his tremors eased, and his body became sleep-warm and heavy. 

And finally, when his own eyes were leaden with tiredness, head lolled back against the armrest of the sofa, half-dreaming in that blessedly calm place before sleep, Aziraphale spoke.

“It was Gabriel.”

“Hmm?” Crowley jerked back into full wakefulness. “What was that, angel?”

“Gabriel,” he repeated. “Who ordered it.” A pause. Crowley held his breath, heart hammering, a dull ringing in his ears that felt like fainting. “But he didn’t - “ Aziraphale let a long huff of breath out, swallowing thickly, the words sticking for a moment in his throat like treacle. “-  _ do _ it. He never actually - gives the punishments. He just orders them.”

“Sandalphon,” Crowley snarled in realisation, anger flaring back into furnace-bright, blazing life. “The cowardly bastards.”

“Michael watched. Michael always watches.”

“I ought to  _ kill _ every single one of them-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was weary and flat and  _ final _ . “I’ve had quite enough threats of violence.”

Immediately, Crowley was ashamed, guilt gnawing at his stomach, that squirming, wretched feeling like nausea. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” he murmured. “Shall I make us some tea?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. When he stood, it was with the stiff expectation of pain, an awkward stooping motion that made Crowley’s heart break like sugarwork, hairline cracks blooming through his chest to see how  _ used _ to it he was. 

“Aziraphale?” 

“I’m perfectly fine, my dear. I just forgot, for a moment.” 

While Aziraphale busied himself making tea, Crowley sat in brooding, predatory silence, mind whirring and scheming, unknotting the threads of his vengeance in an attempt to form a plan. He would have liked nothing better than to rage into Heaven; a hurricane unleashed, spitting fire and lightning and smashing the very foundations of corruption that ran through it like an ugly scar. The compulsion to destroy, to wreak his revenge against the Archangels, was so white-hot in his veins that he could almost taste it on his tongue, the spark of it caged behind sharp teeth.

He wanted Gabriel to be scared. He wanted Sandalphon to feel even a moment of the pain he had inflicted. He wanted every single angel who was even remotely involved in these punishments to have a taste of the fear and helplessness Aziraphale had endured.

But most of all, he wanted it to  _ stop. _ Forever. He would forego everything else if it meant that Aziraphale never had to feel like that again.

When Aziraphale came back, bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, he looked almost his old self again, dressed in a white shirt and his waistcoat, though the sleeves were rolled up and the bow tie was notably absent. The ritual clearly soothed him; pour the tea, select a biscuit, nibble at it delicately, the gentle motions of a normal evening with a friend. Crowley was still lost in thought, gargoyle-hunched on the sofa. He had the beginnings of a plot in his head; a delicious and ultimately non-lethal solution to his very real need for retribution. He tucked it away for later.

Aziraphale slipped a mug of tea into his still-sore hands and he grasped it gratefully, the warmth seeping into his bones. “Thanks, angel.”

“Quite alright. I-” Aziraphale’s gaze was suddenly caught by the pile of bloodied towels on the floor, too-bright eyes flicking to the grape-dark mess on the rug that was not wine, the splatters gleaming still on the furnishings. A terrible, heartbreaking tremble began in his bottom lip. The mug of tea hit the floor without a second’s thought as Crowley launched himself across to Aziraphale’s armchair, kneeling before it and enfolding Aziraphale into his waiting embrace as the angel slid towards the floor. Sobs wrenched themselves from him,  _ finally _ ; spilling out freely, the dam burst under a pressure too huge, too unfathomable to withstand. 

A vast, painful surge of protective fury flooded Crowley’s chest, drowning his lungs with the venomous ocean of it, his wings spreading suddenly out unbidden in an oilblack arc that knocked books from the shelves, blocking the light and sending dancing shadows onto the walls. Crowley pulled them in, curled them carefully around Aziraphale as though the gold-purple-green warmth of them could keep him safe from the unbridled cruelty that had been shown.

“It’s fine, I’m here,” Crowley whispered, just to say  _ something _ , to let Aziraphale know he was not alone. Aziraphale clutched desperate fistfuls of Crowley’s shirt and buried his head in the crook of his neck and simply let go in a way he had never done in front of him before. 

The sobs subsided eventually into hiccuping gasps for air. Crowley let him ride it out, cradling Aziraphale’s head tenderly with one hand curled at the nape of his neck, fingertips buried in sweat-damp hair. The other hand rubbed circles on Aziraphale’s back; Crowley had read somewhere, somewhen, that it was comforting, and if nothing else the repetitive motion of it calmed his own troubled mind. He hadn’t stopped talking-  _ it’s alright, I’m here, you’re safe, I’ve got you _ , words that until today had been meaningless, empty husks of sentiment with no visceral impact. 

Crowley had never truly understood the way humans used language - of course he had emulated it, had learned colloquialisms and ever-evolving meanings and had shifted his own speech to achieve the results he required, but he had never understood the simple  _ power _ of it before, the real strength that could be given with a simple  _ I’m here for you _ , the love in an affirmation of safety, the comfort of not only feeling someone there beside you but  _ hearing _ that they had your back, that they wouldn’t leave you, that you were in this together. The expanse of the human experience, the wealth of the whole Universe itself, was contained within language both spoken and signed; and here, Aziraphale held within the circle of his arms, the safety of his magpie-black wings, Crowley whispered all of it to him, gifting him with every ounce of love and strength and comfort that he could wring out from the centre of himself, lapsing into languages that had been dead for centuries to find the perfect combination of syllables to soothe and calm.

When the hiccups stopped, Aziraphale raised his head, grief-streaked and damp and red around the eyes. Crowley opened his wings at last, folding them neatly behind his back and out of visible existence while blinking fiercely at the loss of the shade they had cocooned them both in. He felt suddenly naked and exposed, nerve endings raw and exposed to the light, throat sandpaper-rough.

Lamplight caught the tears on Aziraphale’s cheeks and turned them to shooting stars, brief and honey-gold until he turned his face and they were lost. 

“I’m - dreadfully sorry,” he said, hoarse and uncertain and more than a little embarrassed. “I don’t know why -” He began to clamber to his feet, then thought better of it and sank heavily into the armchair instead. Crowley quickly and discreetly miracled the bloody towels and the stains away while Aziraphale picked up his teacup again.

“Oh,” he said in a small, plaintive voice. “My tea’s gone cold.”

“I’ll make us more,” Crowley replied, already gathering the tray. “You stay there.”

“If you’re quite sure…"

Crowley busied himself with the now-familiar routine - tea leaves (never bags) into the strainer, teapot and cups all neatly arranged on the silver tray, polished till it gleamed. Sugar cubes in the tiny silver bowl with an even smaller spoon. Biscuits fanned carefully out on a china plate -bourbons on top, then custard creams, pink wafers underneath. It had all seemed unnecessary to Crowley at first; so much ceremony for a drink that was decidedly average as drinks went. But Aziraphale enjoyed the calm reassurance of it - if there was time for tea to be made, nothing could be  _ that _ bad, surely. And, without wanting to or even particularly trying, Crowley had picked up the motions - and with them, the sensation of calm while doing it.

The kettle whistled alarmingly. Aziraphale had thought an old fashioned stove top kettle would be utterly  _ charming _ \- for around a week, at least, until he had decided that he  _ loathed _ it. Now he was simply too stubborn to change it, especially because Crowley had in fact told him that he wouldn't like it disturbing his peace. 

Crowley smiled to himself as he lifted the beige-cream monstrosity, as he filled the teapot, breathing in the steam of the steeping tea; bergamot and lemon peel, mallow blossom and clove, a comforting blend that Aziraphale loved and that Crowley had come to associate with late nights and comfortable silence and warm breath never quite close enough to his lips. The crockery rattled in a timelessly jolly promise of refreshment as he carried it back through.

"Tea, angel," he coaxed, softly patient, when Aziraphale didn't immediately pick up the pot to pour. "Your favourite."

"Yes," Aziraphale replied distantly, eyes focused somewhere off into the bookshelves, a washed-out watercolour stormcloud version of his usual bright blue. Crowley placed the cup into his limp fingers, curled his hand around it gently, and poured the fragrant amber liquid for him, following up with a splash of milk. This roused Aziraphale a little, and he blinked up at Crowley with a vague smile. “Thank you.”

“I want,” Crowley said, perching himself on the arm of the sofa, vulture-thin and scavenging for approval, “to stop this from happening again.”

“You can’t, dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a curl of regret to his voice. “It’s -”

“If you say  _ anything _ that implies you deserve this -”

“I was going to say, from a  _ higher authority _ , though that would definitely imply I  _ do _ deserve it. And, after all, I have broken  _ several _ -”

“I don’t believe that for one moment,” Crowley interrupted firmly, lips thin and allowing no argument. 

Aziraphale sipped his tea in bewildered silence, head cocked to one side to allow Crowley to explain.

“I can’t believe God would allow this,” he shrugged, suddenly self conscious. “It would be - unspeakably cruel, even for Her.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, glancing around himself as though God Herself was about to appear in the room. 

“I think,” he continued carefully, ignoring Aziraphale’s scandalised expression, “that Gabriel has taken it upon himself to decide what punishments Heaven doles out, and I intend to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“I already told you,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “I’ve had more than enough of violence for one lifetime.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Crowley said with a slow, predator-sharp grin. “Will you trust me?”

“...Yes. Yes, alright Crowley. I will.”

  
  


Crowley nodded curtly, rising to his feet and reaching for his sunglasses. “Right then.”

“You’re not - leaving, are you…?”

“I thought you might want to rest, angel. It’s late.”

“Ah. Quite. I suppose you must have places to be. I’m dreadfully sorry for keeping you, Crowley. Thank you for everything, truly.” He was all briskness and cheer; it was nauseating to see him pull up the mask so easily. _How many times has he done this before_ _with me._

“I could - I mean, I haven’t - I’m not doing anything,” Crowley said, trying for nonchalance and failing. “I can stay. If you’d like. Or not.” He scrubbed a hand through his poppy-field hair, grimacing at himself. His heart had started that infernal hopeful thudding again, hammering against his ribs painfully.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s -ah- no trouble. There’s still - wine, somewhere -” he reached underneath the chair awkwardly, blindly, pulling out the bottle that he had dropped what felt like so long ago. “We can have a drink.”

  
  


The night passed uneventfully enough. Aziraphale secured more wine from his collection and they drank until the edges of the room were pleasantly soft, the lighting hazy and comforting. They drank until they forgot to be careful around each other, finding themselves curled together on the sofa with legs entwined, fingertips brushing as they passed the bottle between them, glasses long since forgotten. They drank until Aziraphale relaxed, until the fretful tension of his spine spooled out into languid decadence, until the pallid shadow-ghost of pain had faded from his expression, until his laughter lost the hollow falseness of fear. They drank and they talked, and when the dawn light began to creep rosy-bright streaks through the gaps in the blinds and Aziraphale tucked his feet underneath him on the sofa and fell into a deep, drunken, and hopefully healing sleep, Crowley stayed, awake and watchful, wings spread to shade the angel from the morning sun. 

  
  
  


-

It took over two weeks for Crowley to find the opportunity to enact his plan. He had rarely been far from Aziraphale’s side since that night; finding any excuse to hang around the bookshop, suddenly deciding it was the  _ perfect _ time for a brisk walk, insisting that Aziraphale simply  _ had _ to take him to the new restaurant around the corner, managing to find last-minute tickets to that new musical they hadn’t been able to see yet - he used every single underhanded trick that he had in order to make Aziraphale feel safe without having to ask him to stay. 

It was a cold, rainy Tuesday evening; Crowley was snoozing in the bookshop, happily ensconced between two exceedingly dusty shelves that no one in their right mind would frequent - titled  _ Ancient Lavatories  _ and  _ Maps of Peculiar Wardrobes  _ respectively, in Aziraphale’s usual haphazard idea of thematic organisation. He had toyed with the idea of assuming his snake form and decided against it; it did make people  _ scream  _ when they found him, and that was particularly unpleasant when napping. 

The night was drawing in; Crowley could hear Aziraphale pottering about happily, closing blinds and tidying books, locking the door, taking cups into the back, humming to himself tunelessly. It was only a matter of time before he would come looking for Crowley, beaming and inviting him for dinner, and Crowley would pretend to deliberate before acquiescing gallantly. He could already see the pleasure in Aziraphale’s eyes at the prospect, and a warm, pleasant happiness spread through him.

The bell above the door jangled, and Crowley’s skin prickled ominously. Something was wrong. He had  _ heard _ Aziraphale lock it.

That  _ smell. _ Thunderstorm, and lemon-lime sourness. 

_ Angels _ .

Crowley’s lips pulled back, a silent, sharp sneer of distaste. He slouched to his feet, snowfall-quiet, and peered around the edge of one of the shelves as discreetly as possible. 

Gabriel and his cronies, all four of them looking around the bookshop with open hostility. Aziraphale was still in the back room, mercifully. The timing was as perfect as he could ever hope for. He pushed himself back into the shadows, back against the shelf, fighting every instinct that told him to simply tear the bastards limb from limb. Aziraphale had told him not to. He  _ trusted _ him. He took a deep breath.

“Where is that ridiculous idiot? You said he would be here.” 

“He’s always here. He’s obsessed with the place.”

“Sullying himself with all of this - humanity.”

“Not just humanity. This whole place  _ reeks _ of Hell.”

“He’s been letting that filthy demon in here again.”

“As if everything he has done already isn’t enough! Just one more thing to punish him for, the traitor.”

“You would have thought he would have taken the hint last time he was reprimanded…”

“Do you remember how he cried? On his knees, pleading for mercy, for that - that demonic pet of his -” 

There was a round of raucous, malicious laughter. Crowley bristled, stomach lurching guiltily at the thought. Aziraphale hadn’t said - but of course he wouldn’t, he would never want Crowley to feel responsible. He chewed viciously at his tongue to keep from giving himself away.

“I remember. As hilarious as it was, It took too long. This time I want no foolishness. That means you, Sandalphon. Gag him, if you want. Or, I don’t know, remove his vocal chords; your choice.”

“But it’s  _ much _ more fun when he screams.”

“I don’t care. We’re here to deliver a sternly worded note; you know what that means. Quick and quiet.”

“I brought the branding iron.”

“Right. Let’s get on with it.”

Crowley had practised his plan over and over in his spare moments. Had composed every syllable, crafted as carefully as a poet agonising over a troublesome stanza. He had practised the many miracles required; had worked through every single problem that could arise again and again, and yet now he found himself too furious, too blinded by red-hot vicious savagery to consider if it would actually  _ work _ against four powerful angels. The odds seemed in his favour; everything Aziraphale had told him, innocent of his reasons for asking, indicated that no angel had actually heard the voice of God for millenia. 

Time to test that, and perhaps send a prayer upstairs just in case. He prepared himself.

**STOP.**

The voice was more than merely _ thunderous _ ; terrifying and blazing with righteous fury, it was catastrophically, ear-splittingly incomprehensible, filling the cavernous space of the bookshop with ricocheting, confusing noise. The lights flickered and dimmed, the windows rattling ominously in their frames, books tumbling unheeded from shelves in the wheeling spiral of a sudden cold wind that whistled through the building. The very ground seemed to shudder beneath them, the whole shop screaming  _ get out _ once more, but this time with Crowley in control. 

The angels flinched as one entity. 

“What was that?” Michael whispered to Uriel, uncertainly.

**YOU HAVE FALLEN SO FAR FROM MY LIGHT THAT YOU DO NOT RECOGNISE ME, MY CHILDREN?**

“Lord!” Gabriel began, falsely cheery, casting a wild-eyed glance to the others, who stood in scared and guilty silence.

**I KNOW EVERYTHING YOU HAVE DONE, GABRIEL. YOU METE OUT FALSE JUSTICE UNDER MY NAME. YOU PUNISH INNOCENTS AND DECLARE IT TO BE MY WILL. **

“I haven’t - I didn’t - it was Sandalphon,” he spluttered, pointing an accusing finger. “I did nothing!”

**YOU GAVE THE ORDER. YOU ARE AS GUILTY AS IF YOU HAD WIELDED THE WEAPON YOURSELF. **

“We did nothing,” Michael began, chin high in self-righteous arrogance. “Uriel and I only watched. It was all their idea.”

**YOU ARE CORRECT. YOU SAW SUFFERING AND YOU DID NOTHING. DO YOU TRULY BELIEVE THAT WATCHING TORTURE FROM THE SIDELINES AND ALLOWING IT TO CONTINUE IS LESS HEINOUS THAN PARTICIPATING?**

“I was just following orders,” Sandalphon whined, voice wheedling.

**SOME OF THE WORST CRIMES OF HUMANITY WERE COMMITTED BY PEOPLE FOLLOWING ORDERS. THAT IS NO EXCUSE. YOU MUST ALL BE PUNISHED.**

“What would you have us do?” Gabriel asked, a fine sheen of involuntary sweat on his brow. “I only did what I thought you wanted.”

There was a pause, a silence so complete that it felt as though time itself had stalled, dust motes hanging still in the air breathlessly. Crowley felt rather than heard Aziraphale returning from the back room, piercing the invisible barrier he had created to stop the sound leaking out to him. He couldn’t spare even a glance backwards - all of his energy was tied up in keeping multiple miracles going at once, not least of which was his vocal trickery. 

He had no choice but to continue. He had to ensure that his angel would be safe, no matter what Aziraphale thought of him for doing so.

**ON YOUR KNEES.**

This hadn’t been part of the original plan, but Crowley couldn’t get the image of Aziraphale pleading with them out of his mind. Pleading for  _ his  _ safety, not even his own. 

The angels dropped awkwardly to the ground, fear reflected fourfold. Gabriel looked incredulously at the others, as though unable to believe he was being punished alongside them. Crowley made the very walls themselves appear to crowd in on them, a claustrophobic and unnerving sensation that even made him feel a little sick.

**YOU HAVE REPEATEDLY USED MY NAME TO INFLICT PAIN ON OTHERS. YOU HAVE PLACED YOURSELVES HIGHER THAN YOUR FELLOW ANGELS. YOU HAVE PERSECUTED AND TORTURED INNOCENT BEINGS WHILST CLAIMING DIVINE JURISDICTION. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR FALLEN BROTHERS SO EASILY, MY CHILDREN? **

The threat was clear enough that Uriel and Sandalphon gasped aloud. “Please,” Uriel choked out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry -”

**SILENCE. THERE ARE NO EXCUSES FOR YOUR APPALLING DISPLAY OF ARROGANCE. I AM DISAPPOINTED IN EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU. **

  
  


Even Michael looked worried now, the mask of calm serenity slipping. Panicked tears shone in the corners of four sets of eyes. 

“Lord,” Gabriel began, voice somehow car-salesman smooth despite his trembling shoulders. “I’m sure there’s been some - misunderstanding. We can discuss this.”

**I SEE NO MISUNDERSTANDING. ARE YOU SUGGESTING YOUR CREATOR, LORD OF ALL, IS FALLIBLE?**

“Of course not,” Gabriel hastened to explain. “Just that - our motivations were  _ good _ , we were keeping the angels in line for you, weren’t we, Michael -”

Michael had the good sense to say nothing, earning a vicious glare.

“And Aziraphale has been consorting with a demon,” he continued, conspiratorially. “Surely you would want us to punish such vile, unnatural behaviour -”

Crowley amped up the flickering of the lights, plunging them into darkness and then flaring them back into painful and brilliant illumination again, just to make his point.

**IF I REQUIRE AZIRAPHALE TO BE PUNISHED, I WILL DO SO MYSELF. IT IS NOT FOR YOU TO DECIDE THE GUILT OF ANY ANGEL, NOR TO PRESUME YOU UNDERSTAND MY GREAT PLAN. YOUR FATE HAS BEEN DECIDED.**

“Oh God, please,” Michael whisper-begged, hands clasped together. “We are truly sorry, please -” 

“Yes, please forgive us,” Sandalphon agreed immediately, wringing his hands. “We won’t do it again.”

“We promise,” Uriel added.

Gabriel nodded, shellshocked and gaping. Crowley took grim satisfaction from the sight and hoped Aziraphale did, too.

**I WILL SHOW YOU THE MERCY YOU HAVE ALL FAILED TO SHOW YOUR FELLOW ANGELS. HOWEVER, TAKE THIS AS A FINAL WARNING. IF ANY ONE OF YOU SHOULD CAUSE ANY HARM TO ANOTHER ANGEL AGAIN, YOU WILL HAVE SPENT THE LAST OF MY GENEROSITY AND I WILL SEND YOU DOWN TO HELL WITHOUT HESITATION. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR? **

The angels nodded, desperate and obsequious, heads bowed. 

**LEAVE.**

They scrambled to their feet and fled without a backwards glance, pushing each other viciously out of the way to be first out of the door, animals fighting to flee a predator they couldn’t comprehend the vastness of.

Crowley ensured that they had truly gone, and then fell to his knees, white-knuckled and with his teeth chattering. Icepick-sharp pain ran cold through his skull when he closed his eyes, starbursts exploding on the inside of his eyelids. He heard himself retching, realised a few moments before it happened that he was going to pass out, head siren-wailing like a tornado warning, his vision crowding in at the edges with bonfire-ash grey.  _ No, not now, not here, _ he thought, a prayer with no direction, and then he was gone, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

-

He awoke in fragments; sunlight hitting a cobweb-cracked mirror, glinting on out of place shards. A smell, familiar and comforting but unplaceable in his half-conscious state. A voice,  _ the  _ voice, the most beloved person in his Universe, though the name skittered off the edges of his tongue like stardust. A warm sense of comfort suffusing him, surrounding him, something he knew but couldn’t name.

Piece by piece he glued his memories back together, half-opening his gaslamp eyes and finding himself instantly able to place a name to that worried, blotchy-cheeked face that hovered close to his own.

“Aziraphale.” He tried a smile but his mouth felt stuffed with cotton.

“Crowley! You’re awake!”

“Looks like it,” Crowley agreed, easing himself upright in the manner of a very drunk person. He was on the sofa, tucked under a blanket. “What-”

“You fainted,” Aziraphale said, handing him a glass of water. “I didn’t know if it was something worse -”

“Burned myself out, I guess,” Crowley said, wincing at the stretched-out, overworked feeling of his muscles. He paused mid-swallow as he remembered  _ exactly _ what he had done, eyes flicking to Aziraphale in search of any kind of clue as to his reaction. Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a firm line and Crowley’s heart sank. Lecture it was, then. He braced himself for it, knowing he would have changed nothing.

“Crowley, what you did,” Aziraphale said, plucking nervously at a thread of his trousers. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” Crowley sighed, handing the water back and meeting Aziraphale’s summer-sky eyes with his own. 

“You do?”

“Yeah, but go ahead if it makes you feel better. I’m not likely to run off at the minute.” He ran a hand through sweat-damp hair, pulling it into some sense of submission to his style.

“I -” Aziraphale looked perplexed, brow furrowing. “I don’t think you quite- “

“I’d do it again, anyway,” Crowley ploughed on, shrugging expansively. “If it worked.”

“I -” Aziraphale’s gentle perplexion turned to a scowl, eyes filling with sudden summer lightning. “Will you  _ let me speak _ , Crowley?”

“Sorry.” Crowley raised his hands, a surrender, defeated. “Go.”

“I do wish you hadn’t put yourself in danger,” Aziraphale said, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “If they found out -”

“They won’t, angel.” 

“But if they did,” he pressed, “I’d never forgive myself. You know that, don’t you? I couldn’t bear it if they hurt you.” His lip trembled and he stopped for a moment. “You do so much for me.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley said, shrugging again, casual and instantaneous. “Of course I do, I l -”

He stopped, horrified, mouth agape and teeth bared in the very act of forming the word that they  _ never  _ uttered. Wild-eyed, he stared at Aziraphale, who stared right back in terror with his eyes burning and his hands fisted on his knees as though it would give him control. Crowley choked, swallowing it back, pushing it down to the depths where it belonged. Aziraphale wasn’t there yet, wasn’t ready for such overt and blurted confessions. Crowley  _ knew  _ that, damn it all. He had nearly ruined everything, nearly crossed that tenuous barrier for the sake of one word. He closed his mouth, took a breath, opened it again. “Well. You’re - my friend.”

Aziraphale let out a long rush of air, gratitude etched all over his face. His hands relaxed, resumed picking at the loose thread. “Of course I am.”  _ Of course I do. _ He frowned, reaching out with tentative fingertips to just brush at Crowley’s arm, a ghost-touch that seared itself into Crowley’s skin and heart forever nonetheless. “But I don’t want you risking your life for me.”

“I heard what they did to you,” Crowley said, spilling it out like poison, unable to stop himself. “What you did to try and keep me safe. They laughed about it.” He paused. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt them. But I wanted to, angel,  _ God _ how I wanted to. I don’t care if you hate me for wanting to kill them all.”

Aziraphale’s face reddened all in one flush, chest up to forehead. He dropped his gaze to his feet, tongue licking at his lips. “Ah. They threatened you. Apparently, they believed that you were the easiest way to get to me. I don’t think I changed that impression particularly successfully -”

Surging forward before he could second guess himself, Crowley reached to cover Aziraphale’s petal-soft hand with his own, squeezing for just a moment before letting go. That contact alone was daring enough, and he hoped it said what words could not.  _ Thank you. I’d do it again. For you. Forever. When you’re ready. _

Aziraphale stared at his hand for a long moment after Crowley withdrew the touch. He took a breath that sounded more like a sob, a soft hiccup of air.

“I don’t hate you, Crowley,” he said, and his voice sounded so close to breaking that Crowley could barely stand it. “And, I never - truly - thanked you -”

“There’s no need, angel.”

“There is. You were there for me and - I don’t - deserve -”

“You deserve the whole Uni - you - well, you deserve everything, Aziraphale,” Crowley stumbled, scowling. “Don’t say that. They’re nothing but bastards and bullies, but it’s over now. Alright? Done.”

“Are you certain?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, picking up their lines. “You’re a demon. It’s what you do.” He managed a faint smile, a perfect reward for Crowley who beamed back gloriously.

“Now, what would you say,” Crowley asked, swinging his feet onto the floor and stretching, “to some lunch?”

“That sounds delightful, my dear, only -”

“What, you have plans? No problem, that’s fine, we -”

“ _ Crowley _ ,” and it was breathed with patient, exasperated fondness as Aziraphale stood and fetched his coat. “I haven’t got plans. It’s _ six o’clock in the evening _ . You’re taking me for dinner. I believe a reservation just became free at that delightful new sushi restaurant. "

“Oh. Right. Sushi. 'Course." 

  
  
  


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End file.
